Page 4 of Cold Comeback
A couple of sticks banged the glass. Knox didn't celebrate—just watched me a second too long, then looked away.
Coach's whistle shrieked. "Again."
The next rep, Gideon cut off my lane with a hip that reminded me why he had a C on his chest.
"You okay?" he asked as I shook it out.
"Yeah. You always this charming?"
"When people try. See what happens when you try harder."
We ended with suicides. My lungs burned. My legs seared with lactic acid buildup. Sweat stung my eyes under the helmet. It felt right. I hadn't felt right in months.
I coasted to the line at the last whistle and bent over my knees, sucking air. When I looked up, Gideon was watching me again. Approval? Curiosity? Annoyance?
Coach gathered us at center ice. "Media day tomorrow. Home opener in a week. We're not a charity. You want to play, you earn it. You want to trend, you can shovel snow in the parking lot for the kids' clinic. Drake, Sawyer—office."
Wren was already in Coach's office, perched on the windowsill like a warning label. Coach took his chair. Gideon leaned against the filing cabinet and crossed his arms. I tried to be a calm, normal adult who hadn't just been escorted here by a man in a death costume.
Wren pointed at me. "Ground rules. Thatcher, you don't go live, you don't cozy up with anyone who says they're a fan journalist, and you don't sing in public unless there are candles on a cake. You check with me before any brand deals. You keep your head down. You let your play talk. Easy?"
"Easy." I meant it.
Coach rubbed his jaw. "We're putting you on a line with Linc and Pluto tomorrow. You keep it simple. Boards to net. No cute."
"No cute," I echoed.
"And," Wren added, glancing at Gideon, "given your… history and our budget, the captain's going to be your player liaison."
I blinked. "My what now?"
"Babysitter," Gideon mumbled. "I make sure you show up on time. I make sure your alarm works. I make sure you learn the systems. If you don't like the word, play like a professional, and I'll stop using it."
"I can set an alarm."
"Good. Set two."
Wren slid a paper across the desk. It had a schedule. Morning skate. Systems meeting. Community outreach. Video. Lift. Media. Skate again. I swallowed.
"You'll get a locker-room keycard. Curfew is midnight on non-game nights, 1 AM on wins, 10 PM after losses."
"Wait. That's… backwards."
"Welcome to the minors," Coach said, with a chuckle. "Nothing makes sense."
Gideon pushed off the cabinet. "Keys." He fished in his pocket and tossed me a fob. "Building access. And this—" He held up myphone between two fingers. "Try not to make me regret handing this back."
"I won't." I took it. Our fingers touched again. Same zip of electricity, more noticeable this time. He didn't flinch. I pretended I hadn't noticed at all.
"Practice at 9," Coach said. "If you're late, you're benched. If you're late twice, you're gone. Reapers don't need more baggage. We've got enough."
"Understood."
We filed out. In the hall, Gideon stopped.
He lowered his voice. "Look, whatever brought you here, leave it outside. I don't care if you were a star once. Here, you're another guy trying not to lose the puck at the blue line."
"I can handle that."
